


Venture Forth

by thehappyexistentialist



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: All Origins, Alternate Universe, Drabble Series, F/F, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-17
Updated: 2013-09-07
Packaged: 2017-12-08 18:33:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 7,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/764655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehappyexistentialist/pseuds/thehappyexistentialist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drabble/one-shot collection of moments in an all-origins AU. The Blight would have been a lot more interesting if Duncan had managed to recruit a few extra Grey Wardens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The structure of this fanfic is inspired by Forthrightly's drabble-based stories from the Inuyasha fandom. The prompts come from challenge-the.livejournal.com, Table A.

 

**191 - Hungry**

* * *

"Is everyone well?" Theron Mahariel asked, even though the answer to that question was of little interest to him. The words were a formality, spoken to alert the others before he stepped into the flickering circle of firelight. His dwarven companions had been rather unnerved by his ghost-like ability to move unseen, and had threatened him with an axe between the eyes if he didn't make this minor concession. Mahariel agreed with little argument. A small part of him actually found their complaints quite flattering.

Now he returned to their camp with three lean jackrabbits hanging loosely in his grip. They smelled of musk, dirt, and blood, and not the least bit like dinner. The pungent odor wasn't enough to deter his appetite; once he would have been able to run for miles after a breakfast of halla's milk and berries, but now he was hungry all the time, his body craving meat to stoke the inner fires that made him a Grey Warden. Mahariel sighed as he felt his stomach twist. Constant hunger and terrible nightmares were a small price to pay for honor and respect (and salvation from certain death), but it was so very inconvenient at times.

Aeducan returned his greeting with a nod. Her face brightened as she caught sight of the rabbits. "I didn't think there would be nugs on the surface."

"Really?" Brosca looked up from the bag she was rummaging through. "Oh, they're like tiny nugs with hair!"

The duster and the former princess of Orzammar exchanged pleased glances, forgetting, for a moment, the stilted awkwardness that had overshadowed all their interactions since leaving the thaig.

"Here they are known as rabbits," Duncan said as he emerged from his tent, stripped of his bulky armor. He held a cloak-wrapped bundle in one hand and a bottle of polishing oil in the other. "The taste isn't quite the same, but there are some similarities. They both make a fine stew."

"Ever tried a rabbit pancake?"

"No, and I hope I never have to," Mahariel replied. He had not enjoyed the nug-based diet of Orzammar. The dwarf who discovered the creatures were edible should have kept that knowledge to himself.

"Are you sure about that?" Brosca hefted her maul, a dangerous glint in her eye.

"Quite sure," he said. "If you want to flatten something, make use of those rocks over there."

"Save it for the darkspawn," Aeducan suggested. "Their heads crack open like rotten eggs. It's quite satisfying, except for the stench."

Brosca roared with laughter, and even Duncan chuckled. Mahariel managed a smile, teetering between disgust and amusement. His preferred method of execution was an arrow through the throat at a distance of at least ten paces.

He left his bow and quiver at the foot of his bedroll, which someone had thoughtfully unpacked for him. The Dalish elf intended to sleep out in the open for as long as the weather permitted, even though his fellow travelers had a separate tent each. This journey might take him out of the forest and away from the protective shadow of its trees, but that was no reason to abandon the customs of his people.

As Mahariel skinned and gutted the rabbits with quick efficiency, Duncan and the dwarves quietly discussed the darkspawn. Brosca had yet to face one in combat and was ignorant when it came to Grey Warden lore. Aeducan was better educated and had been part of Deep Roads expeditions before, but still full of questions and eager to learn.

The commander's lesson mostly concerned ancient history: the Tevinter Imperium's corruption of their dragon gods and the subsequent formation of the Grey Wardens, including the fact that members of their order once rode griffons into battle. Both of his audience members turned pale at the thought of flying, and the conversation quickly moved on to other topics. Information that might be of more interest to the recruits was left unsaid; Duncan did not mention how unlikely it was that they would survive the joining, or describe any of the potion's dubious side effects.

Mahariel listened with half an ear, most of his concentration focused on producing something edible for dinner. He hadn't expected to be the Wardens' primary cook, yet that role had fallen to him by default. The  _durgen'len_  were good folk, but after the week they had spent in Orzammar, he never wanted to ingest something made by dwarven hands ever again. And for all his skills and accomplishments in battle, the commander's primary method of making dinner was to lump all the ingredients together and boil them until they had the color, consistency, and flavor of mud. And having spent a night at a Fereldan inn, Mahariel was rather afraid that this might be a typical human trait.

All three rabbits went into the pot, for the dwarves could eat almost as much as a starving Warden. Slowly, he added fresh herbs, roots, mushrooms, and a pinch of precious salt, which he safeguarded in a waterproof pouch. A fragrant cloud of lemon thyme and rosemary hovered above the simmering liquid, and everyone shifted closer.

"It doesn't smell anything like nug," Aeducan observed.

"Thank you," the cook replied. "It will be ready soon. Do  _not_  touch it while I am gone." The latter remark was directed, surprisingly, toward Duncan, who had been reaching for the spoon. He smiled innocently and gave the mixture a quick stir. Mahariel rolled his eyes and left, sure that the moment he disappeared into the trees the man would sneak a taste.


	2. Chapter 2

  
****14 - Solitary** **

* * *

At their backs, the Frostback Mountains loomed large on the horizon, a line of sharp teeth snapping viciously at the sky. The travelers had left behind the rocky slopes where nothing grew except weeds and low, scraggly bushes, and crossed into level territory. The land was fertile and trees were abundant, but there wasn't a _proper_ forest, certainly nothing like the Brecilian. 

Mahariel buried what was left of the rabbits beneath the roots of a struggling oak. He murmured a prayer in the ancient tongue, brushing away pine needles and dead leaves until his hands broke through packed dirt to the moist soil below. The entrails were not fit for consumption, but they would nurture the tree, encourage new growth. Nothing was wasted.

After the last words had fallen from his lips, he leaned against the trunk, pressing his forehead into the rough bark. If he breathed steady and deep, he could pretend that was back with his clan, living a pure, simple life synced to the slow cycle of the seasons. He could pretend that nothing else mattered except these timeless moments, alone in the dark woods.

Mahariel closed his eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

  
****081 - Repression** **

* * *

Marin Brosca's formal education had been crap, since dwarven society didn't really believe in things like free schooling and unemployment benefits for the casteless. She could read and write and figure sums because Rica had beat the knowledge into her head with a stone tablet, but all the feminine accomplishments that the noble boys went wild for were missing from her skill set.

Her older sister had been the only family member allowed to attend the lessons in music and dancing and poetry reading, which was just fine with Marin. She had accomplishments of her own: picking pockets, cheating at cards, and lying through her teeth, to name a few. Her stone sense was strong, and her fighting instincts were top-notch, even though no one had ever shown her how to swing an axe or grip a sword. Casteless weren't allowed any sort of official weapons training; it was technically illegal for them to own weapons at all, except that no one really cared enough to enforce the old laws. Still, advertising one's criminal activities wasn't exactly the wisest course of action. Marin had taught herself rather than seeking out a teacher. It took her weeks of practicing alone in her room to discover the basics through trial-and-error. And when she hit a plateau in her training, she joined the Carta, because the best way to learn was through experience, and bashing heads for Behrat was the best way to get it.

But she hadn't realized just how _good_  she had become until that day on the proving grounds, when she single-handedly kicked the collective ass of the best Orzammar had to offer. Despite the reeking, ill-fitting armor, despite her lack of training, despite the accident of her birth, she was just as good as any of them, if not  _better._ The thought shone in her mind, a sharp, hard point of light that refused to dim. It kept her warm, even in the dank pits of Behrat's dungeons, and it flared blindingly when she severed the bastard's spinal column.  _I am better than you_.

She could have stayed and taken over the Carta, become the baddest, most feared bitch in Dust Town. But she'd still be casteless, a bloodstained, filthy criminal, the lowest of the low. She'd never know honor and respect and loyalty, all the virtues that the nobles claimed to possess but did not. Even if Rica had a baby boy and dragged her family up through the ranks, she'd still be stuck in this slimy pit of hypocrisy and greed. Although her clothes might be nicer.

When the Grey Warden's offer came, she didn't hesitate.


	4. Chapter 4

**160 – Afraid**

* * *

 

Without warning, Mahariel abandoned his post by the stewpot and darted into the woods, fleet as a bird startled from the undergrowth. The Commander gestured to the dwarves, indicating that they should remain seated, while he stood and peered intently into the trees.

A shrill, startled scream, hastily muffled by a hand clapped over a mouth, sounded nearby. The dalish elf returned moments later, like a triumphant hunter dragging his kill behind him—in this case a petite, unarmed redhead with a filthy face and a ragged dress.

"There was someone else. Another female. She ran deeper into the woods."

"You did not pursue her?" Duncan asked.

"A bird in the hand," he said, shrugging. "But I can pick up the other's trail."

The commander nodded. "Find her."

After Mahariel departed from camp, bow in hand, Duncan knelt in front of the prisoner. The girl had pulled her knees close to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, curling into herself like a frightened child. "I'm Duncan, the Commander of the Grey Wardens," he said, speaking in his most soothing tones. "I don't believe it was your intention to harm anyone in my camp, was it?"

"No, no sir!" she said, snapping her head up to stare at him with wide, awestruck eyes. It made her look very young and very lovely, underneath all that dirt.

"May I ask your name?"

"I'm Cara, sir."

"Cara, what are you doing this close to the Frostbacks?"

"The—there were—the darkspawn."

"Where? Nearby?" Duncan questioned, reaching out to grab her tightly by the shoulder.

"No," the girl said, shaking her head violently. "I mean—I'm sorry," she stuttered over her words, stopped, took a slow deep breath and started all over again. "There are no darkspawn nearby that I'm aware of. My father is a merchant in Denerim. My mother's dead, and I'm all he has—I told him he was being foolish, that the army would win at Ostagar—but he wanted me safe and so he arranged for me to travel with some traders on their way to Jader."

She paused to take another calming breath, but even so she trembled. Her face was ghostly in the moonlight, her lips quivering from fear and cold. "Our party was attacked by bandits. We had made camp early that night, and my maid and I had wandered off to explore a little." She fell silent, and became so still her listeners thought she had fallen asleep mid-sentence. "When we heard the screams we hid in a ditch."

"I—I didn't see much of the fight. But afterwards, we went back. They killed everyone. Just gutted them and left their bodies to the crows," she whispered, tears leaking out from her closed eyes.

"I'm sorry," Duncan said. His fingers had loosened their grip and now rested comfortingly on her shoulder.

"We had planned to continue on to the Frostback Fair," she said. "Hopefully there will be someone there who can help me get word to my father. Do you think that—that man will find my maid? She's fast, and she's elvish, so she can see a lot better in the dark than a human can. And, well, after what happened, she'd probably try to claw his eyes out if he grabbed her the way he did me." She cringed, as if something very distressing had just occurred to her. " _Please,_ let me go look for her!"

"You doubt Mahariel's abilities?" one of the dwarves asked, the one without the facial tattoos. "He caught you easily enough, though it doesn't seem like you put up much of a fight." Up until this moment she had been silently listening to the girl's story, a puzzled expression on her face. Now she propped her chin in her hand, and smiled like she was watching something moderately entertaining. 

"I guess I'm not very brave," Cara said, lowering her gaze in shame. "It was my idea to travel at night, since the moon is almost full, and Araceli can make out the path well enough. I thought it would be safer. We were going to walk right past your camp. We didn't mean to bother anyone, hone—"

* * *

**002 – Shadows**

* * *

There was a puff of cold air, soft and shivery, accompanied by the muted sound of icicles shattering a long ways away. Dead, burning wood transformed into a chunk of glittering ice. In the sudden darkness, everything was grey shapes and flat shadows.

All three warriors knew better than to shout like idiots and stumble around the campsite, searching for the enemy. Moving carefully, they unsheathed their weapons and turned their faces outwards, forming a protective half-circle with Cara at the center and the extinguished fire at her back. She shifted into a crouch, blinking rapidly as she tried to regain her night vision.

The magic pounded against her skin, uncomfortable, but familiar. The others were shoved hard enough to knock them off their feet; Duncan's fall was particularly loud. For the space of a heartbeat, the spell contracted, the field pulling close to its caster. Swearing, Brosca tried to rise, only to be pushed back down when the spell expanded once more.

Cara looked up, and echoed Brosca' curses. Crawling along on her belly, she slithered towards the slim figure she had glimpsed at the edge of the campsite, clinging to a tree trunk. Repulsion field spells usually had a very small, limited circumference, but Araceli was an immensely talented mage, specializing in the arcane and primal schools. Her staff had disappeared, and there was an arrow protruding from her shoulder, yet she still had enough power to keep the spell up indefinitely, at least until she bled out. And she would eventually bleed out, because despite all her skill in other areas, she was terrible at healing spells, and far too squeamish to treat the wound without assistance, since that would involve pushing the arrow shaft all the way out the other side.

Someone—Brosca, Cara thought—had spotted her as well, and threw an axe in her direction. It missed, but her concentration was interrupted, and the field faltered. The dwarves surged to their feet, blades at the ready. Where was Duncan?

Cara cast a glyph of paralysis, illuminating the clearing with soft purple light. Aeducan froze, caught by the spell, but Brosca dodged to the right and charged ahead at full speed. Crimson flames outlined Araceli's hands as she raised her arms, even though the motion must have sent waves of pain radiating from her shoulder. Cara knew what was coming next—she had seen her friend practice this spell a thousand times, against straw dummies and warded targets, but never against another living being, never in combat.

"Surana, stop! They're Grey Wardens!"


	5. Chapter 5

**047 – Pain**

* * *

"I'm sorry," Surana said, turning her head to look at Duncan. Embarrassment made it difficult to meet his eyes, but staring at his nose was preferable to watching Cara poke and prod at her wound. "I know how important the wardens are. And I promise I didn't kill the other one. I checked—he was still breathing."

The two dwarves had not yet returned from retrieving the Dalish elf's unconscious body, but the Commander had chosen to trust her regardless. He knelt on her left, keeping her propped in a sitting position while Cara crouched on the right, her hands warm and bright with healing magic.

"I noticed that your spells were aimed to disarm."

"Yes," she agreed. Surana gasped, biting her lip to keep from screaming as Cara snapped off the fletching and drove the remains of the shaft straight through her shoulder. She concentrated on Duncan's face, even as she growled warningly at her friend: "I can do the other kind, too."

* * *

**010 – Future**

* * *

"You're apostates," Duncan remarked, as casually as someone discussing the weather.

"Yes," Surana agreed brightly. "We're also living, bleeding people with hopes and dreams and aspirations! And we're exceptionally talented mages, but that's more of a side thing, really."

"Araceli's the most gifted battle mage the Circle has seen in a generation," Cara answered, proud on her friend's behalf. She dropped her hands, blue radiance fading from her fingers. A thin pink line was all that remained of the arrow wound, and that would disappear in a day or two. It wouldn't even leave a scar.

"I'm the youngest person to have ever successfully completed the Harrowing, at least in Ferelden" Surana said. "I'm not even eighteen yet, and in normal circumstances, I would have been an apprentice for at least two more years, but there's really nothing left for me to learn, and I think the First Enchanter hoped I would be able to join the army in Ostagar if he rushed my training. The Templars put a stop to  _that_ , of course. Said I was too young."

"And you?" Duncan asked, nodding towards Cara, "Have you undergone the ritual?"

"No," she said, irritation creeping into her voice. "I'm one of the best healers in the Circle, but that isn't nearly as violent or flashy a talent, so I was mostly ignored."

"It always frustrated our teachers that we were so specialized," Surana said, sounding apologetic. "I can barely heal a papercut, and Cara's arcane bolts feel more like static shocks. And she's very good at convincing people she's normal and happy and well-adjusted, so it never occurred to them that she might want to run off to Ostagar and heal people who are killing darkspawn."

"If you wanted to fight darkspawn," he said, "Why are you heading for Orlais?" He paused to let his question sink in. His voice and eyes were somber, but something like amusement hovered at the corners of his mouth. "The Chantry has no control over the actions of the Grey Wardens. If, hypothetically, I were to come across a pair of mages on the run, I could invoke the right of conscription and bring them into the Order, which would place them out of the Chantry and the Templars' reach. Forever."

"Conscription," Cara repeated. "It sounds…awfully permanent."

"Indeed," Duncan said. "Once you have completed the Joining, even if you were to run away from the Order, you would still be a Grey Warden until the end of your days."

Blue eyes met green, and an entire conversation occured, questions asked and answered by arched eyebrows and pursed lips. Cara shrugged and lifted an open hand: _it's up to you_ _,_ the gesture said.  Surana bit the inside of her cheek and toyed with one pointed ear tip, a nervous habit leftover from childhood.  After a moment's hesitation, she nodded, ever so slightly.


	6. Chapter 6

**69 **–**  Fire**

* * *

There were thirty-odd children in the orphanage, and nearly all of them had gathered around the fireplace, huddling close like a pile of pink, shivering mice. The dorm monitor (an older elven girl who was once a resident herself) wrestled with flint and steel, trying to start a fire despite the damp kindling. With each strike, sparks flew, the orphans held their breath, and the wood remained stubbornly wet.

Surana wanted her tea. She was ill, plagued by a hoarse, phlegmy cough and a leaky nose that wouldn't turn off. The orphanage didn't have the coin for healers or medicine, so any sick children were dosed with steaming mugs of hot tea and told that if they drank every last drop they would feel better soon. Surana had been obediently swallowing the herbal concoction three times a day for the past week, and she was sure that today would be the last day of her illness, if only she could have her tea.

But there was no fire, no hot water, and she could feel herself getting sicker by the minute. Surana stared into the ashy fire pit, willing the broken sticks and twists of paper to catch flame.  _Firefirefire_ , she chanted in her mind, imagining bonfires and blazing hearths, the forge at the blacksmith and the ovens at the bakery. There was a pressure building up in the center of her forehead, hot and pounding like a second heartbeat. She wiggled her way forward, using sharp elbows to shove through the clump of orphans. Without knowing exactly what she was doing, she set her fingers on one soaking, splintered log and thought:  _fire_.

The horrified expression on the dorm monitor's face was perfectly illuminated by the tongues of flame curling around Surana's hand.

* * *

**46 – Work**

* * *

The starving, sickly elven child was probably going to die of the infection in her lungs, but the Templars took her with them anyway because it was their duty to protect Thedas from dangerous mages. The sisters at the Denerim chantry fed Surana hot soup, wrapped her in blankets and cloaks, and then slung her over the back of a templar's horse and told him to ride fast to the tower. If the man disliked the idea of wearing out his horse to save the life of orphaned elf mage, he hid those thoughts behind his visor and did as he was told.

* * *

**40 – Blue**

* * *

"Are you awake?" A small hand grasped her foot and tugged playfully on her toes. The touch sent a jolt of warmth radiating up her thin legs, and Surana's eyes snapped open, ripping apart her sticky, crusty eyelashes in the process. She kicked feebly through the heavy layers of wool blankets and opened her mouth—to shriek, or laugh, or protest, but her throat was far too dry and all that came out was a harsh exhale.

"Oh, are you thirsty? Jowan, go get her some water!"

"Why do I have to do it?"

"Don't be rude! It's a gentleman's duty to see to a lady's needs."

The second voice grumbled, but there was the sound of footsteps, followed by a door opening and closing. Surana lay on her back and blinked until the blurry grey world slid into focus. When she could make out the individual stones that formed the ceiling, she decided it was time to try getting up. Her hands shook as she pushed back the bedcovers, and her chest was aching by the time she had managed to lever herself into a sitting position. She coughed; it hurt, but it was a fading soreness and not that squeezing sensation she'd felt before, like her lungs were a sponge and someone was wringing it out.

"Are you feeling better?" There was a human standing at the end of her cot, a pale girl in neat brown robes. Others of her kind would probably consider her a pretty child, but to Surana she just looked  _strange_. Her cheeks and chin were too round, padded by a layer of baby fat, and her eyes were too small, although they were a beautiful color, so dark a blue that they appeared black until she stepped into the light. "I'm Cara Amell. What's your name?"

Surana bit her lip and stared down at her lap, feeling panicked and shy. One hand crept upward to pinch nervously at her pointed ear. Everyone knew you weren't supposed to talk to shems; they hated elves, and would spit on you or hit you if they could. Until last week she'd never even seen one before. They rarely came to the alienage and the orphans weren't allowed to leave the street where the building was located. Then she got sick and there was the fire…

Like a hammer striking an anvil, Surana  _remembered._ This wasn't her bed, wasn't the orphanage, wasn't the alienage, wasn't even Denerim.

She must have been in the Circle Tower, a stone prison built in the middle of a deep lake. It was the place they sent monsters and abominations so that they couldn't roam the streets eating the bad children who didn't do their chores and say their prayers to the Maker at night. It was the place they sent mages so that Ferelden would be safe.

Araceli Surana was a  _mage_.

It should have been impossible to cry this hard when her throat was so dry, but the water for tears came from somewhere. They flowed down her cheeks, across her parched lips, and into her open, gasping mouth, the taste of salty, bitter grief on her tongue. She sobbed until her lungs couldn't take it anymore, and she fell back against the pillows, coughing and crying and choking. She was dimly aware of the door opening as the boy from earlier returned, a scrawny shem with a untidy head of dark hair and food stains on his shirt. He absorbed the scene in front of him with a lost, bewildered expression on his face, brow furrowed and mouth twisted like he was about to start weeping himself.

"Please don't cry," he pleaded, his voice cracking helplessly. Surana shook her head, and the motion set off firecrackers of pain behind her eyes. Her skull was pounding and so was her heart; she could feel it beating against her ribcage, like her body was a prison it had to escape.

The mattress dipped as the shem girl—Cara—settled next to Surana, crowding close in the small bed. Even though she was a stranger, her presence was comforting. Surana was accustomed to bedding down beside at least three other orphans, and waking up alone had been a shock.

Cara set one hand on the elven girl's arm and patted it awkwardly, as if she wasn't used to consoling people. "I'm sorry," she murmured, and her hand began to rub soothingly back and forth across Surana's frail shoulders, the rhythm steady and hypnotic. That strange, tingling warmth returned, following the path traced by Cara's fingers. Eventually, Surana's crying softened, and then ceased altogether, and she concentrated on taking slow, deep breaths.

In the corner of her eye she saw a flash of light. She turned her head and stared at the luminous glow haloing Cara's hands, a pale, lovely blue shaded with white and gold.

"What's that?" she asked, speaking aloud for the first time in days.

Cara grinned, blue eyes shining. "Magic," she said.


	7. Chapter 7

**073 – Never**

* * *

When the itching finally became too much to bear, Ingrid Aeducan tore off her gauntlets and scratched ferociously at the cut on her palm. Her nails, broken into sharp, ragged angles, ripped away a healing scab and blood pooled in the creases of her palm.

 _You're an Aeducan_ , she remembered her father saying, radiating pride.  _No one can ever take that away. It's in the blood._

Helplessly, she began to laugh.


	8. Chapter 8

**003 - Truth**

* * *

The mage girl was smaller than any of the humans Ingrid Aeducan had met thus far, though still tall enough that Ingrid had to tip her head back to meet her gaze. It wasn't the proud, elegant tilt of the chin she had learned by emulating the late Queen of Orzammar, but an awkward, almost painful perpendicular angle. Something of her discomfort must have shown on her face, for the girl—Cara, she had said her name was, Cara Amell—lowered herself to the ground, choosing to sit on the cold grass rather than the fallen log where the dwarf was perched.

"Trousers would have been a more practical choice for a fugitive," Ingrid said as she watched the mage struggle to find an arrangement of limbs and robes that preserved her modesty. Cara's clothing was in a pathetic state. Dried mud and grass stains covered every inch of the wrinkled wool fabric, and the tight, narrow skirts (no doubt designed to keep the wearer restricted to a sedate walking pace) had a long vertical rip running from the hem to the knee. Even the slowest movement revealed intriguing expanses of skin and shadow, in a way that was somehow a great deal more provocative than if she had simply been wearing pants.

Cara blushed, a shade much lighter and softer than her fiery hair. Her eyelids lowered, and she cast her glance downwards. With her back straight, her hands folded neatly in her lap, she was the very picture of demure femininity.

Ingrid didn't buy it for a second. That wasn't an embarrassed, lady-like flush, but a brief flash of anger, quickly, effectively, disguised. She considered a round of slow, sarcastic applause, but settled for a raised eyebrow and a small smile. "That won't work on me," she said. "If you're trying to win my favor, I'd advise you to unsheathe some of that steel in your spine."

"What?"

"I'm hardly an aging warrior to be taken in by discreetly flashed calves and a pair of big blue eyes," Ingrid said, rolling her own plain brown ones. "And if I may offer a critique of your earlier performance: it was rather heavy handed, and a bit muddled. There was a moment when I couldn't tell if the Commander wanted to recruit you or set you in his lap and braid your hair."

While Cara spluttered in shock and anger, Ingrid continued with her observations. "If it wasn't for the rather impressive magical display by your elven companion, I doubt you would be traveling with us now."

Cara groaned and buried her face in her hands. It was the first honest emotional display Ingrid had witnessed from her.


	9. Chapter 9

  **165 – Hopeful**  


* * *

Shianni hadn't exaggerated; Drystan's bride  _was_  lovely, small and soft with dainty, delicate bone structure.  Her wry, crooked smile seemed out of place amongst her otherwise perfect features.  It tilted upwards, pulled slightly higher on the left side and bracketed by a charming little dimple.  Hands on her slim hips and that fascinating expression on her face, Nessiara studied him from top to toe, her eyes lingering in places that made him blush.

"Do you like what you see?" Drystan asked, hiding his embarrassment behind sarcasm.

"I believe I do." Nessiara spun in a circle, skirts flaring to reveal dainty feet and slim ankles. "And you?" she asked, breathless and laughing, one hand held out in invitation.

It only took him seconds to make up his mind. A wife like that, who had a smile full of mischief and good humor, who was bold and teasing, who appreciated his lean waist and muscled arms—a wife like that would bring him much more happiness than the Grey Wardens ever could.

He took her hand and held it between both of his, turning it over so that he could explore her scarred, calloused palm. Despite the long fingers and the clean nails, this was the hand of someone who worked hard every day of her life. But when he looked up into her bright green eyes, Drystan saw only joy. And he found it impossible to resist. "I think we will be very happy together."

* * *

  **77 – Leaving**  


* * *

The Hahren's house was the finest dwelling in the alienage: it had four walls and a watertight roof, and fresh, herb-scented straw spread out across the floor. The furnishings were plain: shelves, a few stools grouped around a carved table, and a low bench in front of the hearth, where glowing coals lay buried beneath a mound of fine gray ash. Everything was clean and well-kept, though shiny with age and wax polish. It was small and homey; a place of safety, where any elf could find comfort and counsel.

But Drystan saw through the lie. There was no protection to be had for him here.

"I'm leaving the city," he announced, his voice hoarse, throat raw from screaming curses and wordless battle cries. "I need your help to get to Ostagar."

He knew he was being selfish and reckless, that his flight guaranteed someone else's death. If the guards did not find him they would simply pick another random elf out of the crowd and execute him for Drystan's crimes. They might pick several someones, because how could one elf possibly kill half a dozen guardsmen and four noblemen, Ferelden's natural born leaders? Never mind that the bastards were drunk and drugged, their pants hanging around their ankles as they fought over the corpse of his betrothed and flipped a coin to see who would get to rape Shianni first. It had been ridiculously easy to gut them like the pigs they were, even when armed with the most pathetic dagger he had ever scrounged, rusted iron held together with leather strips.

Drystan had achieved his revenge, and now the alienage would pay for it. There would be restrictions, which would lead to riots, which would be ruthlessly repressed with blades and blood and fire. It would be a massacre, and the senseless deaths of all those faceless elves would be his fault.

He couldn't bring himself to care.

* * *

  **007 – Purpose**  


* * *

The King and his cavalry had departed Denerim the morning of Drystan's ill-fated wedding. It was a glorious spectacle: armored men on horseback, bright banners rippling in the breeze as they galloped down the road towards Ostagar. A day later, following at a much more sedate pace, one hundred wagons pulled by slow, disinterested mules trudged out of the city, accompanied by scores of clerks and servants and foot soldiers, the essential but decidedly un-glamorous backbone of His Majesty's forces. With the help of his grandmother's cousin's daughter, Valendrian was able to find a position for Drystan, and the fugitive elf disappeared into the barely controlled chaos of the army.

It seemed impossible to Drystan that he could move so freely amongst these people without anyone recognizing him as a wanted criminal, but his pointed ears and plain tunic were an effective disguise. He was just another anonymous servant, utterly beneath the notice of his so-called "betters". At their behest, he fetched and carried and washed and folded and skinned and stirred and sharpened and shined. Whenever he had the chance, he observed the training drills and listened to the soldiers' gossip and studied the maps that the lords scattered so carelessly about their tents, taking special note of the marks indicating the possible presence of a Dalish camp. It was nice to have options, but Drystan had already made up his mind. He was tired of being invisible.

Seven days after his escape from Denerim, he made his way to the Wardens' campfire and volunteered to join their order.


	10. Chapter 10

 

 

* * *

 

  **058 – Flowers**

* * *

 

Kiran Cousland was thirteen, painfully awkward in every way imaginable, and completely aware of his predicament, which just made everything worse. Perhaps he would be handsome, once he had finished growing, but at the moment he looked and felt like a patch of nettles in a garden of fragrant flowers: an ugly tangle of drab colors and sharp edges.

It didn't help that Fergus, the hero of his younger days, had finally come home after almost a year sailing the Amaranthine Ocean, bearing new treaties and trade agreements. His big brother was just as handsome and talented and successful as Kiran remembered. He actually  _glowed_ , like he was constantly standing in a sunbeam. It was fucking ridiculous, and made Kiran feel more like a weed than ever. (Oriana shone with the same light. Despite the political necessity of their marriage, the newlyweds were clearly  _very_ happy together.)

All the noble families that owed their allegiance to the Teyrn of Highever had come to the castle for a week-long festival celebrating the match. The Arl of Amaranthine was in attendance, which wasn't odd in and of itself—Rendon Howe was a frequent visitor and close friend of the family. This time, however, he had brought his wife and children, none of whom Kiran had seen in years.

Nathaniel was sixteen, already broad and tall, with nary a spot in sight, the lucky bastard. Kiran had been training for battle his entire life, but when Nat had come at him with his fists, Kiran had tripped over his too-big feet and gotten punched in his (very spotty) face. Now he had a split lip, a swollen tongue, and a fucking lisp.

"I am not marrying Delilah Howe," he said to his mother, speaking slowly and taking great care with his enunciation. "She's bloodless as buttered toast, and she looks like a mouse in a dress, and  _she's never opened a book in her life_." Kiran would have forgiven much from anyone who enjoyed Orlesian epic poetry and could read Arcanum. When he had mentioned his interest in both subjects to Delilah, she had laughed in his face and begun talking about the weather.

Eleanor Cousland folded her hands in her lap and regarded her son with a look of sorrowful disappointment. "Kiran, I am ashamed of you," she said in her soft, cultured voice.

The boy sullenly clenched his jaw and stared into his tea cup, a delicate, dainty thing no bigger than a blooming rose. It was made of polished silver, but part of him believed that if he gripped it too tightly it would shatter into a thousand small shards, like glass. Here, in his mother's private parlor with the carved chairs and the embroidered seat cushions and the heirloom tea service, he felt exquisitely uncomfortable.

Knowing his mother, that was probably the intended effect.

"However incompatible you may be, that young woman—every young woman—is still deserving of your respect," Eleanor reminded Kiran, her eyes large and doleful. "I've failed as your mother if I haven't managed to teach you that much."

"No, Mother, it's not your fault, I'm thorry—I mean, sorry," Kiran said, apologizing quickly lest the weight of maternal displeasure crush him flat. "If I had a sister and Nat had insulted her honor, I would have thrashed him up one side of the yard and down the other. I'm not complaining. I deserved the blow. I just  _really_  don't want to marry Delilah Howe."

Eleanor sighed. "I will not pretend that I have not heard the rumors of a betrothal that have been floating around the castle all week, or that I do not know who is responsible for them."

Kiran scowled and opened his mouth to say something vile about Arlessa Howe—perhaps that she was a vicious, nagging harpy, as stupid and stubborn as a nanny goat—and then he remembered his mother's earlier warning and subsided. She gave him an approving nod.

"Regardless of the arlessa's campaigning, we are not looking to contract a marriage for you at this time."

"Thank the Maker!

" _However_ ," the teyrna continued as if he hadn't spoken, "Do not think that your tantrum had any effect on this decision. You will not be allowed to settle into an idle bachelorhood, and your bride  _will_  be selected for you by your father. You are a Cousland of Highever, and you have many responsibilities to your king and country. Making a good marriage is one of them."

Kiran wanted to protest, to quote some Orlesian romance about fair maidens and true love:  _the heart has its reasons, whereof reason knows nothing_ , et cetera, et cetera. Except something rose up in his throat and stopped the words—an ineffable something that lived in his bones and moved in his veins and spoke with the voice of his ancestors.

"A Cousland always does their duty," he recited, grimacing as his the scab on his lip split open and spilled drops of blood into his teacup.

 

* * *

  **034 – Memory**  


* * *

 

When Kiran was thirteen, he thought he was living the worst year of his life. But thirteen was followed by fourteen, which was followed by fifteen, each age more terrible than the last.

The low point of every year was the Landsmeet, when the Couslands shut up their estate in Highever and the entire household made the journey to Denerim. Despite Cailan's obsession with pleasuring himself and Anora's desire for international recognition, the capital of Ferelden was a filthy, stinking city. The streets were strewn with garbage and feces, which flowed freely from the narrow streets of the slums onto the main thoroughfares, like smaller tributaries joining with a great river. In Kiran's memories, the city folk did not exist as individuals, but lurked in the background like a chorus, reflecting his moods. The peasantry were desperate, hollow-eyed ghosts, frightening but harmless. The courtiers were vain and vapid, though still as treacherous as the reefs that hid in opaque, shallow waters.

Sometimes he wondered how such worthless people could haunt his memories so thoroughly, making him flinch with raw, visceral embarrassment in the middle of dinner, or as he climbed a set of winding stairs, or when he was thrown breathless onto his back during a sparring match. At the oddest moments, he remembered stuttering and stumbling through conversations and court dances with faceless Ferelden girls, his palms growing sweaty and his tongue tangling around his teeth. The only way he could keep the words coming was to drink more and more unwatered wine. He remembered being pulled into a drafty alcove hidden behind a faded tapestry, and another tongue twining with his, rancid and slimy and bitter—or maybe that was the taste of vomit coming up, splattering across the cold stone and staining the hem of Habren's embroidered gown.

He remembered having a broadsword, still too heavy for his bony wrists, knocked out of his hand by a knight who rudely kept his visor down during the post-match formalities. He remembered King Cailan's remark to Bryce Cousland that "his youngest son had not his father's skill with a blade", for it was loud enough to carry over the snickers and whispers of the entire court.

And afterwards, he remembered being taken aside by a dark skinned man in a Grey Warden tunic, who introduced him to the basics of fighting with one long dagger in each hand.

 

* * *

  **012 - Sun**  


* * *

 

Oriana swept back the curtains to wave at him as the carriage clattered out of the gate, standing Oren up in her lap so that the toddler could wag his chubby fists in goodbye. Kiran could see his mother behind them, smiling, her own hand raised in farewell.

He grinned and waved back. "Maker watch over you all!" he called, shouting to be heard over the heavy rumble of the carriage wheels and the staccato pounding of iron-shod hooves.

His father and brother had chosen to travel by horseback for the journey to Denerim, instead of staying shut up in the carriage. "Behave!" his father called as he cantered past. Fergus, following a few feet behind, winked conspiratorially at his little brother and shook his head. Kiran laughed out loud, and soon his entire family had disappeared from sight, their progress hidden by a cloud of dust and the curve of the road.

He stayed out in the courtyard, leaning against the sun-warmed stones long after the dust had settled, basking in the light while his mabari meticulously sniffed every rock and weed. Kiran supposed he should feel more put out about being left behind (in disgrace? If so, he couldn't imagine for what), but to be honest, he didn't care less. He had a puppy in dire need of training, a stack of pre-Andrastrean texts to translate, and a quiet castle in which to work.

Kiran pushed away from the wall and stretched his arms over his head, a smile spreading across his face. "Come here, Lance!" he called. The mabari turned at the sound of his name, lifted a leg, and urinated against a dry patch of ground before sauntering casually over, tail arched like he had just done something quite clever and was very proud of himself.

"You ridiculous creature!" Kiran laughed. "Sometimes I think you might be more cat than dog."

Lance gave a low, offended bark. Without waiting for Kiran, he began heading for the entrance—not the main doors that led into the great hall, but the servant's postern, close to the kitchens, where the charmingly fat cook could always be cajoled into relinquishing a plate of cakes and some sandwiches.

"Good boy," Kiran said, hurrying to catch up.


End file.
